Light and Dark
by Akairuka
Summary: Set in a world where 6 states are involved in a war, one that shows no signs of stopping. The kingdom of Durandal allies herself with Herne and Perchta, ruled by the recently crowned king Arthur Kirkland and the veteran Ludwig Beilschmidt. To end this war before it gets worse, each of the 3 send their best to eliminate the opposing 3 lords. RusAme, FrUk and more!
1. Chapter 1

The night was his cover, his partner-in-crime, a shield against any unfortunate eyes that happened to chance upon him. Ivan Braginsky crouched on the mansard roof of his victim's house, violet eyes trained on the backdoor which had been left ajar. A pistol was held firmly in his gloved hands. He was extremely confident of his aim, often not needing a rifle to complete long-range assassinations. The gun that he held was a rarity model in the kingdom of Durandal, or anywhere else in the world, Ivan guessed. Guns were a new technology, and regular civilians had little chance to own one, or let alone touch them. The miniscule gun he held in his hand was specially made by a man he both respected and feared in order to carry out his trade – assassination.

Three nights ago, his client had made a strange request once again. This client was very specific about how the assassination was to be carried out as he handed Ivan a torn and tattered list of names. To be killed cleanly when they're alone and then twisted into a grotesque piece of "art". Ivan hadn't been particularly keen on this job, especially since it meant he would have to dirty his hands, quite literally, as he carried out the task. As he read through the list of names, he was aware of the fact that many of these victims were all of a particular class. In fact, he even knew some of them himself. The victims were either young adults with extremely promising futures or successful middle aged men with a wealth of money. Yet what was common amongst these were that they all came from mysterious backgrounds, just appearing in town one day without a single penny and then becoming a public figure the next.

Ivan guessed this client either bore a grudge, or was chasing them down from wherever they had come from. Either way, it was not exactly his business to enquire. He had accepted when he heard of the generous payment and supplies given to aid the completion of this job. Shortly after signing a contract, his client had vanished, fading into the night as if he never was there. The only things he left behind that bore evidence of his presence was another note torn out of a notebook, stating that he would be back in two weeks to check up on the progress, as well as a sleek black case filled with several notes and pieces of equipment.

A soft click was heard as the door was pushed open and a middle-aged man stepped out, a wisp of smoke spiralling up towards the sky as he exhaled loudly. A sudden gust of wind blew in Ivan's direction, causing the large man to frown in distaste as he unwillingly inhaled the smoke. Silver hair fluttered in the breeze and well-toned arms shifted slightly, adjusting their aim. Ivan watched the man standing below him, blissfully unaware of his impending death as the man lifted the cigarette to his mouth. Ivan's grip tightened and there was an almost imperceptible 'click' as the trigger was squeezed.

The man staggered forward, mouth agape in a silent scream of surprise. The lit cigarette fell from his lips, extinguishing as it fell in the growing pool of blood that had blossomed under the man's shattered skull. A grey mass was also visible next to the man's bulging eyes. His brain, Ivan assumed. It had been a good shot, going straight through the skull and killing the victim before he had hit the ground. Barely any noise too, Ivan thought as he once again carefully examined the gun. Well, it didn't really matter much, since this particular house was several miles from any other sign of civilization. The lack of sound from the firearm would prove useful in any city assassination though.

Swiftly, Ivan slid the gun into its holster and slid down the roof. He uttered a single grunt of discomfort as his shirt caught on the uneven roof tiles, causing his pale skin to be exposed to the unrelenting temperatures of the night for a short moment. Landing with a soft thud on the grass, Ivan started towards the body. A small crack was heard as he took a step closer to inspect the corpse. Looking down, he realised he had stepped on the man's hand and quickly removed his foot, grimacing as he saw the mess it had left on the bottom of his boots. He slowly surveyed the surroundings before making his way to the base of the tree and picking up a worn branch which he then used to scrape off the small remains that had stuck to the bottom of his boots.

He turned back, about to toss the branch aside when he thought better of it. He had to disfigure the body, didn't he? Ivan allowed himself a small childish smile as he strode towards the corpse that was slowly stiffening.

Anyone who had listened closely that night, beneath the idle hoot of a passing owl and the gentle sounds of branches brushing against each other was a more sinister and suspicious sound of bones snapping, metal creaking and the occasional snap of wood.

Anyone checking on Mr Victim the next morning would also have seen the grisly remains of a once-healthy man twisted, turned and contorted into a mass of entangled, broken limbs, hung on a metal pole that was bent into a perfect hanger shape, adorned with a wooden crown which pierced the already shattered skull as it sat on the body's, if it could be called a body at all, head. They would also probably notice the pair of crows perched on two shoulders, or possibly arms or legs, each holding a red orb in its beak. Peering closer, they would also realise that those two red orbs would indeed be the poor soul's eyeballs, pecked straight out of his skull. Instead of his eyes, one empty hole was filled with a grey smooth stone. Upon even closer inspection, the small stone would bear a childish drawing of a smiley face, splattered in dry blood as it grinned innocently at the sky.

oOoOoOoOo

_When one wakes up, they have certain things they don't exactly want to wake to. For example, the weight of a body pressing against one's flesh. Cold, dead flesh. A man's eyes, devoid of any life, staring at his own. Ivan swallowed an urge to throw up, instead scrambling away clumsily, his hands fumbling around blindly behind him as he scrabbled for purchase on the wet floor. He inhaled sharply as his hand came into contact with something dry and hard. Turning slowly, he didn't register what he was holding until a few moments later. His hand clutched a human femur. If that wasn't the most frightening, it wasn't just a mere piece of bone he held. It was a portion of the femur that he has grasped. The other end of the femur was still covered in flesh, flesh that still oozed black, foul-smelling blood, flesh that was still alive. Barely, though. _

_ A wet, shuddering breath was heard and Ivan whipped his head around to face the owner of the femur. It was a lady, her head covered in a fine coat of dried blood. One eye spinned restlessly in its socket, the whites stained a sickly yellow while the woman frothed at the mouth. A sickly, green foam gathered at the corners of the woman's cracked and broken lips as she attempted to mouth a few words to Ivan. Her one remaining good eye was fixed on Ivan's own violet ones._

_"Run, child."_

_The woman's eyes widened momentarily as she uttered those words, before heaving a cough that wracked through her body. Ivan was frozen, before something kicked in and he stood up quickly, making himself dizzy in the process. His legs were unsteady as he looked around. As far as he looked, the place was a graveyard. Gone was the cheerful place he had known._

_"Hey, there's one more here!"_

_Ivan remembered turning at those words, eyes suddenly flickering with a faint glimpse of hope as he saw another being, one that wasn't dead or dying yet. Yet that hope was crushed as he registered the man's dark brown uniform stained with blood, the hardened expression and the barrel of the gun that pointed at him. A loud 'bang' resounded through the desolate village and all Ivan remembered was the fear, the heavy impact, the pain and then, the welcoming darkness._

Ivan awoke abruptly, bolting upright in bed and throwing back the heavy covers. Drenched in cold sweat, he leapt upright and threw open the small windows, inhaling deeply as he tried to clear his head of the cloying smell of death. The morning air was crisp and cold, cold to the extent of hurting his nose as he breathed. He was used to this, though. This cold. He hadn't felt warm in a while. Almost as if in a daze, Ivan swept his hand over the flattened area on the bed where he had succumbed to sleep. There wasn't a trace of warmth on those sheets, he found. He exhaled slowly, admiring the light mist that formed in front of his face.

A knock sounded on the wooden door. "Mister? Breakfast period is ending soon if you're interested," the kindly voice of an elderly man broke through the momentary feeling of absolute nothingness.

Ivan nodded, before realising that the man wasn't able to see him. Instead, he shouted that he would be down shortly, quite softly actually for Ivan wasn't one to shout in the morning. Standing now, Ivan wrapped a pale scarf snugly around his neck and donned a tan coat. Satisfied that he now looked like a normal civilian and not at all like a sinister assassin, Ivan made his way downstairs, welcoming the aroma of cooked food as he finally realised he hadn't eaten since the previous day.

oOoOoOoOo

So the story of brutal deaths wasn't a mere fable, it seemed. Alfred stood in the backyard of the unfortunate man, staring at the corpse with hooded eyes. The sight was appalling, and those damned crows weren't helping. They cawed raucously at him as he approached the corpse. He knew it was dead, but he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that clouded his mind. His hands instinctively reached for his sword as yet another crow swooped in to join the gang.

Who could have done such a thing? Alfred was puzzled. Of course, in the vast kingdom of Durandal every man had his enemies. But to go to such an extent? Alfred once again fought the urge to throw up, reaching up to cover his nose as he caught the scent of rotting flesh. As a battle-hardened warrior, Alfred had obviously seen his share of blood and gore, but this was just… Alfred shook his head in disgust and turned away. He waved a hand towards the young soldier that stood a few paces behind.

"It's enough, let's leave," Alfred quickened his pace, brushing past him. "I want to get out of this place as soon as possible."

Toris turned quietly and strode after Alfred. The only sound that was heard was the clank of metal amour shifting as the two men picked their way amongst deep ruts in the dirt ground, moving slowly towards their horses, who were groundtied beneath a tree. As Alfred approached his horse, he swore he saw a faint green glitter behind the grazing equines and squinted, wondering if he saw anything. He darted to the left, startling Blackjack, his horse, as he did so. Satisfied when he realised there was indeed nothing, Alfred quickly swung his leg over Blackjack's back before checking that his companion was ready. The young man quickly took up his customary position, riding slightly behind Alfred to keep an eye out for any danger, before moving off at a brisk trot.

For the long period of the long ride back to the city, there was absolutely nothing eventful. Really, a peaceful two hours with an unbearably hot sun and a young horse that decided that every blade of grass moving was a predator waiting to strike. Naturally, Alfred had to do something to ease the boredom. He shifted restlessly in the saddle before turning back. He opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it shut as something caught his eye.

Wordlessly, Alfred turned Blackjack away from the well-worn dirt path that they were currently utilizing and cut through the long grass, leaving it parted and waving wildly in his wake. With a heavy sigh, Toris turned to follow, weaving through the parted blades as he gave chase_. _More than once a random blade of grass would whack him in the face, leaving him blinded and galloping blindly through the field as he struggled to locate Alfred. It was a fortune that Durandal had superbly trained warhorses. Toris' own grey mount managed to locate the coal black rump of Blackjack and made a bee-line for him, taking his master's safety into his own hands. Or hooves, for that matter.

Meanwhile, Alfred had approached the object that had caught his eye. Not really an object, though. What Alfred had spotted a particularly large cloth training dummy, studded with throwing knives and bearing many scars across areas that would prove fatal on a human body. He rode closer, stretching his hand out to brush against the worn fabric, internally flinching as he traced the one of the many holes on the dummy.

"Alfred! Please don't stray too far next time!" Toris had caught up by now and was glaring at Alfred sternly while brushing some stray strands out of his face.

The little ponytail that he had tied when they set out for the journey was now undone and his hair stuck to the sides of his face. All in all, Toris gave the impression of a flustered young man dying of heat after a long run. Essentially, Toris was exactly that. Alfred couldn't help but laugh heartily at his friend's appearance.

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" Alfred gave Toris a reassuring grin. "I'm quite sure you would've spotted anything dangerous from afar anyway!"

Toris tried to maintain a stern expression but failed miserably. He settled for a small smile as he maneuvered past the training dummy and back into position. At once, Blackjack started forward, ears pricked as he trotted towards the city, heeding the training that was instilled into his mind as a colt. Alfred sat back comfortably in the saddle, tilting his head up to gaze leisurely at the slowly darkening sky. Grey clouds rolled in from the south, pushing the fluffy white cotton balls out of his sight. A clap of thunder sounded, causing both rider and horse to cringe at the booming sound. Almost instinctively, the pace picked up and soon enough both Alfred and Toris were safely within the stone walls of Durandal.

Hooves clattered on a cobblestone floor as Alfred and Toris navigated through streets filled masses of bustling people going on with their daily lives. Ahead rose the silhouette of a tall stone building as they drew closer. It was none other than the royal castle. Or, in other words, home.

oOoOoOoOo

Back in his room, Alfred sprawled over his bed, basking in the wonderful softness of the smooth cloth. After a day of walking, riding, walking and then more riding, this change was more than welcome. He sat up, kicking off heavy boots and letting out a groan as he felt his legs free from the heavy weight. He let himself fall backwards, back into the embrace of his bed. Resting his eyes seemed like a good idea at that time and so he did. Golden lashes slowly lowered as the young prince gradually drifted off into sleep.

"Alfred?" Toris knocked on the wooden door, one hand already resting on the handle.

When he received no reply, he leant gently on the handle, wondering if Alfred had once again left the door unlocked. The door swung open easily, only stopping abruptly with a small thud when it connected with something heavy. Toris stepped in, carefully avoiding a pile of sweaty clothes and peered around the door to inspect the object that had obstructed the door. Upon discovering a pair of heavy boots thrown haphazardly near the door, Toris pulled a face. _When would Alfred ever learn to keep his room tidy?_ Yet beneath the easy-going, relaxed personality that the young prince exhibited, Alfred could turn rather serious when necessary. _He wasn't one of the best in the kingdom without reason,_ Toris reflected.

At first glance, the words "one of the best" didn't exactly strike one when looking at Alfred though. Especially not now. Flopped out on the bed, spread-eagled and face-down. He wasn't even lying in the right direction. Bright blond hair covered twitching eyelids as the young man in question dreamed of bright, lush lands, an azure sea and sky that stretched on forever, connected by the fine horizon, punctuated by a rising sun that shone upon the blessed land. A new world, one that no one would experience in this lifetime. Probably. This young man would probably be reincarnated to experience that new world though.

If one looked closer, the carefree blond would actually start to look like "one of the best". Beneath loosely fitting clothes was a body hardened with hard work, training and fights. Scarred with scratches, cuts, slices obtained from daily brawls and scuffles. In addition to these, Alfred bore several more severe wounds, all of which had healed, forming a strange, disconnected pattern of pink scar tissue across his body. These scars, he wore as trophies after leaving the sandy ring. When asked, he could always proudly recount who he had defeated to obtain these marks, yet in the depths of those clear eyes was a prick of guilt and anger.

He had asked once, though. Toris had been new at the castle and assigned to Alfred. When he innocently asked, Alfred had proceeded to list out names. Perhaps Alfred had let his guard down that day, for the prince had let a spark of anger ignite his eyes while his voice droned on, as if that list of names was merely one he had written down and memorized for the sake of it. Maybe it was, or maybe it wasn't. Either way, Toris had asked, concerned.

"What is it that angers you?"

In response to those six words, Alfred's head had snapped up, eyes fixing onto Toris' own as he revealed his thoughts. A low voice shaking with anger, eyes light as he paced about the room, ranting about the wastage of lives, a barbarian's game and a lottery in which the prize was your very life. Or at least, a freedom. Many a times Alfred had seen men, crippled after fights, hobbling around streets, glaring out at the world with dead eyes. For with that limb they lost, they lost a certain privilege in their lives. Viewed on as the losers, scorned or picked on by those lucky folks who had walked away unscathed.

Alfred had been pretty riled up about that. Yet now, he had appeared to achieve a state of calm, and for that Toris was immensely glad.

oOoOoOoOo

A/N:

And that's it for the first chapter~ It's about 1k short of my target, but I assure you chapters will get longer when there are more interesting things to write about. So far, no real action has happened yet. Leave a review if you have anything so say ^^ I won't bite~

Edit: Added "oOoOoOoOo" to seperate timeskips, POVs and etc. I don't have time to go back and change much for this chapter, so please bear with it I'll change it ASAP though!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

A velvet sofa set against an inconspicuous grey wall. In it sat a man, his eyes an odd blue that shone with shades of violet. His right hand twirled a delicate rose, its thorny stem clasped in two long gloved fingers. His left gripped a thin stack of papers, fingers splayed to support the thin material. Medium length blond hair brushed against a flamboyant coat which stood out against the neutral browns, beiges and greys of the room. Long legs shifted slightly as their owner tried unsuccessfully to find a more comfortable position, before swinging up and coming to rest on the opposite armrest. The man lounging on this sofa was none other than Francis Bonnefoy, king of Durandal.

Fine brows furrowed as his eyes ran over the small print. It was definitely not pleasing news, to hear of such killings in what is, or what was, a peaceful town. That is, before the war struck. The last time the states had clashed it had taken a heavy toll on each of them. Durandal, for one, had suffered great losses and had taken years to rebuild its army. Even now, Francis doubted that the army could stand against a strong attack.

The thwack of a young sapling hitting the window frame was what alerted him to the incoming storm. The booming thunder that followed made him cringe slightly as he lifted his gaze from the paper in his hand, refocusing on the large expanse of land that the castle looked out upon. Squinting, the man could make out the tiny dots which sped towards the gates. Alfred and Toris, he assumed. With a thump, his legs connected with the floor and he strolled over to the high windows, idly twirling the rose in his hand as he peered out. The grey clouds obscured the sun and now only a few beams of sunlight filtered through the clouds. Most of what he saw was cast in shadow, which didn't exactly help him in his casual observation.

As he tried one last time to see beyond the whitewashed walls of the main city, something caught his eye. On a wide, well-trod dirt road leading in from the east, Francis spotted a couple of small figures, slowly inching their way towards the eastern gates. A cluster of small green dots amongst fields of dull beige and brown. Herne, perhaps.

As he watched, the group disappeared under a cluster of trees of a small forest and didn't reappear for quite a while. Another clap of thunder sounded.

Having nothing else better to do, he decided to go for a quick ride before it rained. Francis threw the papers back onto the sofa, huffing as they scattered across the seat. The rose he left in a small dainty glass vase which perched on a mahogany end table. There was a spring in his step as he made his way towards the stables, pausing only once to talk to Michelle, his advisor. For once in the dreary day, Francis felt glad as he stepped out of the room, which was suffocating him with its dark with velvet drapes and walls, making the room seem much smaller than it was. As he stepped out, he called out, cupping his hands over his mouth to ensure that the sound travelled.

"I'm heading out for a little while, don't mind me, _ma Cherie_!" Momentarily, Francis slipped into the language of his origin, namely a small reclusive village in the west of Durandal. He flashed a quick grin at the young woman before disappearing with a flourish down the spiralled stairs. An indignant shout quickly followed.

The stables were rather empty, save for one lone groom who looked up, startled at the arrival of his king. Abandoning a small, worn book, the groom hurried to tack up the king's steed, a compact black gelding by the name of Meren that crabstepped nervously in his stall as a curry comb ran over his dense coat. Francis, meanwhile, observed the gradually darkening sky, waiting patiently. Not long after, Francis was bent low over the gelding's neck, a small smile playing on his lips as the pair galloped out of the gates.

oOoOoOoOo

He straightened up gradually, slowing Meren to a steady canter as they neared the tall grasses. The steady three-beat pace gradually slowed to a steady trot, Meren's hooves hitting the ground at a rhythmic two-beat gait that allowed Francis to survey his surroundings.

Being without the usual company that accompanied royalties had its plusses. For once, Francis could enjoy the tranquil peace of the calm before a storm. A bluebird flew overhead, chirping frantically as it dove into a nearby tree, seeking shelter. Below him, Meren's ears flicked back and forth as his rider continued to gently guide him along a narrow path.

The wind blew gently, shifting as it did so. Francis drew closer to the main road, shifting off the smaller path that he had previously been on. As he did, he scanned the area, wondering if the newcomers were still there. People from Herne were rather interesting, to put it mildly. He did have a good relationship with the king of Herne, even before they were crowned. The king of Herne had been a constant mentor and guide to him for quite a while. Constant travelling back and forth the two neighbouring countries and much drinking was rather common a few years back, until they were both crowned and went their separate ways.

A rustling to his left alerted Francis to the approach of another creature. Meren snorted at the newcomer – a riderless horse. Its saddle was tilted haphazardly on its short back and broken reins trailed uselessly on the ground. A dark substance crusted the thin frame of the mare as it trotted unsteadily towards Francis. Upon closer inspection, Francis realised that the substance was indeed dried blood. It matted the ropey mane of the horse and the thin leather of the saddle.

He beckoned to the mare, hoping she would approach. Instead, she threw her head up nervously before backing away and cantering in the opposition direction. Despite the mare's unsteady gait, she seemed to know where she was going, and possibly leading him someplace, piquing Francis's interest and causing him to steer Meren after the runaway mare.

Weaving in and out of the trees, Francis wondered what had happened. Perhaps they had run into a couple of wolves, or possibly bandits. Either way, it wasn't likely that either reason would have led to such damage. Unless the man facing his opponent was dreadfully inexperienced, of course. With one's mount in such a state though, it was certain that the rider had run into some sort of trouble. Francis nudged Meren gently with his heels, urging the horse to lengthen his stride, pursuing the mare with increased urgency.

oOoOoOoOo

Pain. Everywhere. Down his back, across his chest, and throbbing aches in his side and head. He lifted one blood-stained hand which weakly thumped back down into the ground due to a lack of energy. He couldn't see much, one half of his vision seemed to be obscured by something he couldn't quite identify. Was he blind? A surge of panic ran through the young man and he lurched into a sitting position, emerald eyes widening as he did so. A surge of pain ran through his wiry frame, forcing him to choke back a scream. Instead, he lay prone on the uncomfortable surface, grimacing as another jolt shook him.

Arthur angled his face upwards. A pale figure floated there, barely visible. A fay? She seemed to be rather anxious. Her hands waved in the air wildly as she shouted incoherently at him. Delicate white wings fluttered, working to keep the tiny figure suspended as she hovered just outside his peripheral vision.

What had happened? His memory was fuzzy, only bits and pieces were recovered. The thunder of hooves, a swoosh as a volley of arrows were released, the tearing sound of flesh ripped apart and the screams of dying men. Everything was slowly growing numb as Arthur struggled to remember. Just before he claimed by darkness, he noticed that a few things. His clothes clung to his body, soaking wet with what seemed to be rather muddy water. Second, he was lying on yet another damp surface. So for, everything seemed to be dull, soggy and depressing. The sky didn't seem too happy either, it was crying fat raindrops that thudded in the soil next to him, churning up the dark soil into a runny mud that only added to his displeasure. Compared to the current reality he was facing, a dreamless sleep seemed rather inviting. And thus, Arthur welcomed the feeling of slowly sinking beneath a dark blanket that numbed him to anything the outside world might have to say.

_Yet more darkness. Arthur awoke in a place void of colour and light. He wasn't familiar with this place, but he suspected it was probably a part of his unconscious mind. Hesitantly, he placed one foot in front of the other, lurching forward immediately when his foot came into contact with thin air. He clawed desperately, hoping to grab a hold of sort but failed and plummeted downwards, mouth gaping in a soundless scream as he spun for what seemed like eternity._

_Eventually, he landed heavily in what appeared to be his own room. He did a quick inventory check, realising his body had taken on a ghost-like quality, being translucent and able to pass through objects easily. Curious, he poked his hand through a nearby chair leg just to make sure and as expected, his hand came out perfectly fine through the other side. Blinking in surprise, he realised he was reliving a memory._

_Looking up, he saw a mirror image of himself. Or really, it seemed to be him exactly. He was dressed in casual clothes that hung loosely around his waist. Draped around his shoulders was a cloak that was worn primarily for travelling. Arthur frowned. Was he embarking on a long journey then?_

_He moved with a sense of urgency, with a light bag slung over his shoulders. The scene swiftly melted into one of the grey stone stables, bustling with horses and men as they mounted up and checked their gear. Each was dressed in hard leather, made to withstand harsh climates and light attacks. His memories slowly floated back to him. Ah yes, he was travelling to Durandal, wasn't he? A friendly visit to pass on some news, he was certain. Another fragment of his memory was returned._

_Again, the scene shifted. This time it was a sheltered forest trail. Arthur stood at the side of the path, watching as his other self cantered smoothly to the front of the ride, surveying the dense trees for any danger. Satisfied with the fact that he sensed none, he returned to the back of the ride, resuming the most secure position of the entire group. It wasn't a large group, just a small group of five elite escorts, three of which being friendly acquaintances, one being his advisor, Matthew, and the last being a man he wasn't quite sure about yet. Matthew had recommended him though, so Arthur assumed he was fine._

_In a way, he floated in between both bodies. Original-Arthur seemed to be invisible and was watching his memories unfold from a third person point of view. Subconsciously, he could tell what Memory-Arthur was thinking It wasn't surprising, considering that they were both actually the same person. At this point of time, he could feel Dream-Arthur's quiet excitement beneath his calm demeanour at meeting new people and going new places. _

_He walked along the group, making use of his current invisible state to examine each of his men. All of them seemed to rather comfortable, chatting quietly amongst themselves about trivial issues. They hadn't let their guard down though, each was poised for action and every soldier had one hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword. Well, most of them at least._

_Matthew had his head tilted slightly to his left as he occasionally nodded in agreement, responding to what the other man was saying. The latter had let go of his reins, guiding the horse confidently with slight leg commands. One hand rested on his lap and the other was raised in the air as he gesticulated wildly to accentuate his speech. A broad grin was plastered on his pale face and light glinted in energetic crimson eyes as he jabbered on. Arthur couldn't really make out what he was saying and by the looks of it, neither could Matthew. There was a rather confused look on his advisor's face as he nodded hesitantly._

_The scene changed once again. It didn't seem to change that drastically. It was more of a fast-forward this time. If he looked back, he could see the place where the previous scene had taken place. Arthur looked around, wondering why his memory had chosen this particular part. There was a voice nagging him at the back of his head, warning him that something bad was going to happen. He tried to ignore it, he didn't want to know._

_He closed his eyes, his heart heavy with dread as a familiar whoosh sounded, passing dangerously close to his head. A scuffle of hooves as the horses reared in alarm, a dull thump as an unfortunate man fell to the ground, the screech of metal as swords were drawn hurriedly and raised to defend their king. The noises died away as soon as they began. Arthur slowly blinked his eyes open, biting his tongue in alarm as he realised he had lost his third person vantage point. Now, trapped and powerless in the mind of Dream-Arthur, he could only watch as the scene unfolded before him._

_A barbed arrow protruded out of a man's back, its cruel tips shining with dark blood. Frenzied, the riderless mount reared before crashing mercilessly down onto the ground. There was an explosion of blood and Arthur involuntarily glanced down to see the crushed remains of a man's head and helmet. The horse once again reared, shrieking as it fell to the ground, an arrow buried behind its elbow._

_There was a momentary silence and no one moved a muscle as two lithe figures appeared before them. One was clearly female yet gave off a menacing aura, dressed in a long sleeved dark green top that seemed to resemble a foreign traditional wear. Golden eyes gleamed dangerously as they glared out from under hazel bangs and a curved spear was clutched in her hands, poised to strike. The other looked similar, except he had chosen to cover the lower portion of his face with a black cloth. If anything, his overall appearance looked duller and darker as compared to the female, but wide sleeves that revealed portions of scarred lower arms and bandaged fists proved that he was definitely as strong as her. Perhaps stronger. He neglected the use of weapons, preferring to use bare hands as he cracked his knuckles._

_A bow lay discarded behind them, its purpose having been completed. The result lay before them, one man and his mount down and dead, another gripped his thigh, mouth agape in a silent scream of pain. The arrow had torn through cloth and flesh and now a gaping hole was visible mid-thigh, carmine blood slowly dripping down and staining the previously-brown leather saddle an ominous black. Only three remained, Arthur himself, Matthew and the crimson haired man whose name escaped Arthur's mind for the moment._

_He was once again bound to the back of Dream-Arthur's mind as the scene played out in front of him, like a bloody battle scene in a fast-paced action film, except there was no cool composure in the actor's mind ready to act out a choreographed fight sequence. No, it was pure panic and apprehension behind a shield of indifference as Dream-Arthur raised his sword. A flicker of what seemed like amusement passed over their opponents' eyes as Arthur's companions mirrored his gesture._

_Without warning, they charged forward, swords lowered to pierce through the heart of an unsuspecting enemy. The swords were steady, controlled with practiced ease and each made a beeline towards his target. Unfortunately, these opponents were far from unaware of their intentions. Swiftly, they sidestepped, dodging the advancing beasts. A spear flashed by Arthur's eyes and he felt himself falling as the saddle slipped sideways, slowly depositing its passenger ungracefully on the ground. He sensed Dream-Arthur's frustration and then fear as his mount bucked, steel-shod hooves landing barely a feet from his head before fleeing into the distance. He rolled, grimacing as he untangled his legs from the leather stirrups and stood, sword once again ready for action, facing the green-clad woman who gazed at him, eyes burning with hatred._

_She ran at him, spear raised high and screaming a wild battle cry as the heavy blade came crashing down. He deflected it, muscles screaming with the effort. No matter how hard he trained, Arthur just didn't compare to his sturdier brothers who could confidently stand their own in a street brawl. His style of fighting was rather different, relying on the size of his opponent. Not that he could use it now, though._

"_Gilbert!"_

_A shriek quickly followed, distracting Arthur momentarily as he spun around. Immediately, regret at the instinctive reaction flashed across his mind, followed by blinding pain. He staggered forward in pain, Dream-Arthur's mind was muddled with pain, focused on the white-hot burning sensation that spread over his back. For a moment, he experienced a strange out-of-body sensation as he reverted to his third person point of view, staring down in shock as he watched his body contort in pain. The painfully stoic expression on the woman's face as she stared down at him made it even more unbearable. Droplets of blood arced through the air as she spun the spear gracefully, advancing to put the suffering man out of his misery._

_A dragging sensation passed over and once again he watched through Dream-Arthur's eyes as he frantically tried to regain his bearings. Valiantly, he rose to meet her gaze but the darkened green eyes met none. He turned around on impulse, instantly regretting the decision as the pain exploded in his lower back. He thought he saw a flicker at his side and turned, just in time to receive another gaping wound across his arm, which he had raised to defend himself._

_His attacker quickly vanished as a flash of white hair swept across. Gilbert, that was his name wasn't it? Crimson eyes fuelled with anger clashed with cool indifferent golden orbs. Hurt, but not yielding, Gilbert drove her back in a flurry of attacks, sparks quite literally flying as metal clashed against metal. _

_Arthur spared a glance back behind the raging swordsman and was startled to find the male assailant completely defeated. The black cloth obscuring his face was torn as were the sleeves of his shirt. His knuckles were bruised and bleeding and the bandages were beginning to unravel._

_Standing nearby was Matthew, panting heavily as both arms hung by his sides. Similar to his opponent, his fists were clenched, torn and bleeding. The skin seemed to have almost torn off and Arthur grimaced at the grisly sight of a thin layer of pale skin dangling by a thread._

_Something, or someone, barrelled into this right and Arthur lost his footing. A quick glance upwards allowed him to glimpse Gilbert scrambling to his feet, the sword held steadily despite his obvious exhaustion. There was a blur as the woman shot past Gilbert, slashing at him. His foot caught on a tree root and Gilbert let out a low shout of despair as he failed to dodge completely. Blood sprayed as the spear pierced his shoulder. The woman pulled it out with a jerk, letting Gilbert stumble back unbalanced and turning to Arthur, raising her spear as she did so. _

_It stuck a chord of fear in him and Arthur only looked on in fear as she advanced, spear raised above his heart, gazing down with eyes completely devoid of emotion save for a flicker of hatred. It felt familiar, this situation. Another glimpse of his memories flitted across his vision, one of a blood-stained young woman, a small hunting knife poised over his head as he blinked eyes bleary with sleep._

_The blade swung down and Arthur slipped clumsily to the side in a failed attempt to evade. The spear missed his heart, but plunged deep into his side, twisting as it tore itself out of his flesh. He let out a strangled scream, vision momentarily blacking out due to the pain. He lashed out wildly, swinging his sword up haphazardly and kicking out, hoping to connect with his target. His sword met some resistance and his vision cleared and he looked up to see his sword bloodied and his attacker staggering backwards, eyes wide with undisguised shock as she clutched her thigh, teeth gritted in pain._

_Grunting with effort, Arthur managed to get on his feet. He held the sword level with his opponent's chest, stepping forward as he threatened her. This time, she backed off, sparing a glance over her shoulder as she easily picked up the limp body of her comrade and vaulted onto a chestnut horse that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere before fleeing swiftly. Before she vanished out of sight, she turned back and gave them a strange look. One possibly filled with a hint of pity._

_Arthur let confusion wash over him for a moment before starting to observe his surroundings, grabbing a tree branch for support. A few metres away, Gilbert was being helped up by Matthew, who seemed to be the better off out of all three. His eyes fell on something else moving around beyond the circle of trees. It seemed that Matthew had also seen them. Gilbert though, was completely unconscious, his head lolling loosely as the irregular flow of blood slowed to a steady trickle._

_Wolves. Attracted by the scent of fresh blood and weakened humans, drawn to the unwary prey like moths to a light. The canines circled the trio, moving smoothly as one, just outside the ring of trees where the battle had taken place. The wolves of Durandal were exceptionally ferocious and cunning, tales were often heard of these wolves taking down large prey in small numbers, and the few cases where these wolves had attacked humans, disarming the men with a little deft flick of their tail and killing them with a neat bite to the neck._

_Arthur moved closer to Matthew and Gilbert, while Matthew tried, and failed, to lift the heavier man. Both stood back to back, Gilbert balanced between them, swords raised as the wolves tightened the circle. Arthur's heart sank. There were at least 15 wolves, all of which looked battle-ready and able to kill, whereas Arthur and his companions were rather near collapsing of exhaustion and were in absolutely no state to fend off hungry wolves._

"_When you see a chance, run for your life."_

_Arthur felt surprised as he heard himself utter those uncharacteristic words. Matthew nodded, violet eyes lighting up momentarily as he scanned the surroundings for an opening. He gave a little grunt as he heaved Gilbert onto his shoulders and at this the wolves stepped forward, whining in anticipation._

_He steadied himself and let out a piercing whistle, hoping that his mount would hopefully hear him and provide a way to escape. Instead, a few fays flew into his scope of vision, each tinted a vivid splash of colour, leaving a mystical trail that shone in the light. They danced around the trio, delicate wings allowing them to swoop and soar as they came between the exhausted men and the wolves. One flashed a reassuring smile at Arthur and he felt a list mist settle on his skin._

_A surge of energy made him straighten his back and raise his sword. A glance to his right showed him that Matthew and Gilbert had also received a burst of energy and were now staring in disbelief at the fays that appeared before their eyes. Gilbert had regained his energy and was able to stand, albeit a little support from Matthew. _

_**You should be able to run now, sine we've given you some of our energy. There's a stream nearby, and we can hold off these creatures long enough for you to reach your destination. The wolves of Durandal fear water, or so I've heard.**_

_A fay dressed in a pale blue dress addressed Arthur directly, gesturing in said direction as she explained. In a low voice, Arthur relayed the message to his companions, who had gotten over the initial shock and were now eying the wolves instead._

_As soon as he did so, the fays disappeared without a trace, earning a gasp from both Matthew and Gilbert. They reappeared soon enough, just as the wolves leapt forward, with ropey strands of saliva hanging from gaping maws. The air seemed to waver and the wolves collided with an invisible force field that held them at bay._

_Legs pumping, Arthur ran. His companions soon disappeared from view as he ducked under low hanging boughs and bounded over overgrown tree roots. A thick shield of shrubbery hid his impending fall from view and unknowingly, Arthur crashed ungainly through the bushes, only to have his foot step on thin air and fall into a freezing cold river below. The last thing he saw in this memory was the bubbles of air escaping his lips, a stony riverbed and white foam and waves crashing against sharp rocks as the river twisted and bucked violently before he felt a painful impact on the back of his head and he saw no more._

oOoOoOoOo

The mare led the way across a pebbled riverbank, stumbling a few times in the process. The steadier Meren followed at a steadier pace, picking his way across scattered pieces of driftwood. All of a sudden, the mare threw up her head and reared before attempting a clumsy jump across a rather large fallen tree. There was a painful scraping sound as her hind legs snagged on a branch but the mare managed to get over safely, more or less.

The metallic tang of blood caught his attention. He rode Meren at a strong canter, rising up slightly out of the saddle as the gelding hurdled the log. He sat back, slowing Meren to a walk and stifled a gasp. Instead, he bit his lip as he observed the scene before him.

A man clad in what used to be a quality cloak had been washed ashore. He was unconscious and breathing raggedly, his chest moving up and down in an irregular rhythm as he lay spread-eagled on the ground, still half immersed in the river.

The mare nosed the limp hand of her rider gingerly, her ears drooping as she received no response. She raised her head to gaze at Francis before stepping back, granting permission and access to her fallen rider. Francis dismounted, looping Meren's reins over a branch and approached the unconscious man carefully. Eventually, after several cautious steps, he drew close enough to thoroughly examine him.

Thick brows rested above closed eyes. His features would make him a popular man amongst the ladies, if not for the blood that coated them at this point of time. His hair, under the mud and blood, would probably be a bright blond not unlike his own. Francis stretched his hand forward to gently skim through his hair, sucking in a breath as he saw the deep gash on his head. This man needed medical attention as soon as possible, and despite being a king, Francis wasn't the best one to give him that care.

Slowly, he looped his arms under the other's shoulders and slowly pulled him out of the river. He released the man, staring in amazement at the amount of blood that had seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Scarlet liquid floated in the crystal clear waters of the river, resembling a ruby scarf that floated on the river without a care in the world before the water carried it downstream. It followed the man, leaving a trail of blood across previously-grey pebbles and pooled beneath torn flesh and cloth and his side.

Francis started panicking, muttering profanities in his original tongue. He turned on the spot, trying frantically to spot anything that might help stem the bleeding. He turned a full circle before coming to a stop at the exact spot where he had started. Seeing nothing that would help, Francis shrugged off his coat, feeling a twinge of regret as he did so. It was one of his favourites, after all. Bending down, he tore off a portion of the sleeve, binding snugly it around the man's forehead. Another portion of the other sleeve was torn off and wrapped around the other gaping wound in his side. The remainder of the coat was wrapped wound the man the best as it could.

Stepping back to view the results of his handiwork, Francis contemplated on what to do next. His next move would probably be to carry him and rush back to town, screaming for someone to help the poor soul but due to the head wound, he probably shouldn't.

"What…where…"

Francis's eyes widened in surprise. Two seconds ago the man was barely breathing and now he was struggling to sit up, and talking! The man's head swung in his direction, emerald eyes staring questioningly at him. He seemed to be about to stand up, before his body was racked with a bout of coughing. Turning away, the man threw up some water, shoulders heaving with the effort.

He turned back a moment later, lurching unsteadily to his feet as he approached Francis. Francis found himself backing away, hands raised. Or some reason, the sword that the man held didn't seem entirely welcoming.

"What have you done, and where am I?" The man rasped, his throat obviously sore.

Francis was startled at the other's quick recovery. "Francis Bonnefoy, king of Durandal, I have done nothing except to kindly bandage your wounds. I found you here thanks to your horse. You're in a small forest just outside the city walls of Durandal." He stood his ground this time, seeing that the sword was in fact lowered.

"Arthur Kirkland, king of Herne. I must thank you then," Arthur met his gaze evenly, before turning away to cough. He murmured a quick thanks to an invisible figure at his side before collapsing forward.

Francis caught him, knees momentarily buckling under the weight. Arthur Kirkland? That meant that the previous king had died, didn't it? And now the king was young Arthur, instead of his elder brothers Dylan, Allistor, Connor and Darren. Francis shook his head, the questions on the tip of his tongue, but decided to hold them until Arthur was properly healed up.

"An hour." Arthur was shivering uncontrollably at this point, barely managing to squeeze out words between chattering teeth.

"An hour till what?" Francis guided Arthur towards Meren, taking care as to not trip over the various obstacles nature presented to them.

"An hour until the spell wears off and I completely go unconscious and possibly go into a coma." Arthur stated. "The fays are helping at the moment, but I need to get patched up as they can't possibly help me forever."

Personally, Francis thought Arthur might have gone insane. Then again, Herne was a kingdom with a strong belief in magic. Many strange things had happened the last time he had visited and now, thinking of it, what Arthur said didn't seem too crazy after all.

Bracing himself, he helped Arthur into the saddle before mounting. Meren flattened his ears in response to the additional weight but didn't complain further as Francis coaxed the gelding to carry them home. A firm squeeze sent the horse into a smooth canter that enabled them to travel swiftly across the trails.

Arthur had settled down comfortably at this point, but as they passed the shelter of the trees, Arthur sat up ramrod straight and seemed to scan the surroundings rather worriedly. "My companions are missing too," he murmured anxiously.

Francis frowned. He had not seen any other person in the forest, though he clearly remembered a group of people entering the forest. Though with an hour left, he didn't want to tarry any longer for fear of that hour running out and Arthur slipping away. He had known him for such a short period of time, yet felt a sense of affection towards him. He didn't want Arthur to disappear. Definitely not. Nope, that thought seemed completely out of question.

"I'll find them later. First things first, I'll get you to a doctor." Francis focused on the road ahead, clicking his tongue to urge the gelding faster. Meren's strides lengthened and soon they were quick approaching the city. Arthur seemed slightly reassured, relaxing a tad more as they entered.

The streets were empty, save for a few who were rushing home. The rain fell in sheets, obscuring vision. They pulled up slowly, trotting into the shelter of the stables where Francis slid off first before helping Arthur off. Meren stood obediently as his riders dismounted, trotting off as soon as he felt the weight leave his back and announcing his arrival with a ringing neigh.

Footsteps sounded as people rushed down. Arthur stepped backwards, one hand on his head as he grimaced in pain. Francis held his shoulders, steadying the younger man, looking up as a familiar figure approached.

"_Ma Cherie! _Would you be so kind as to call a doctor?" Francis called out to Michelle. She gazed, horrified, at Arthur's state before nodding and rushing off.

Francis turned back to Arthur, scanning the other's face. "I'll be right back, stay here, okay?" He patted Arthur's shoulder reassuringly before jogging off to have a few words to a groom.

oOoOoOoOo

He barely felt the hand on the shoulder, nor heard the words Francis uttered. A cold numbness was starting to envelop his body and his head was throbbing. As he took a step forward, a stabbing pain made him look down and lose his balance. Down, down, down… The floor rushed to meet his face.

And once again, darkness.

**-End-**

A/N:

I'm sorry it took so long to upload! This chapter is a little longer than the previous one and centres on the two kings Francis and Arthur. I apologize for any errors in the chapter. If anyone's wondering, here's some trivia about the stuff I've written. Arthur's older brothers would be Scotland (Allistor), Wales (Dylan), Ireland (Darren), North Ireland (Connor) and Sealand (Peter). Sealand wasn't mentioned cause he isn't an older brother. They might come in later chapters. Probably will.

Meren, Francis's horse, is modelled after the Mérens horse, a horse native to France. Arthur's unnamed horse is a chestnut Thoroughbred mare. For those who don't know, Thoroughbreds originate from England.

Age difference between Francis and Arthur is roughly two to three years.

Arthur doesn't remember Gilbert's name cause Gilbert was cared for by Matthew and not Arthur. He's in the guard cause Matthew recommended him and Matthew is Arthur's trusted advisor and also good friend and thus Gilbert is part of the guard.

More family relations regarding Arthur, France, Matthew, Alfred and many others will be revealed eventually. Let's just say I've thought of a complicated background with help from my friend Kiho.

And I'm done, Akairuka out! Expect an update in a week or more, depending on my schedule. Thanks for reading!

Edit: Added "oOoOoOoOo" to seperate timeskips, POVs etc. I don't have time to go back and check this chapter for mistakes right now since I'm busy writing the third chapter I'll get any errors corrected once I post chapter 3!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Red faded into black and black slowly melted apart to reveal the grey sky that opened up before his eyes. He flinched instinctively as a fat raindrop plopped heavily on a spot above his eye. As it rolled off his face, it slowly turned red before dripping off his earlobe to land on the ground. He reached up to run a hand through tousled silver hair but wasn't able to, instead dropping his hand and curling into a foetal position as fresh blood ran out of his side, staining the ground a carmine red.

"Gilbert?" Worried violet eyes met his and widened with relief. "Gilbert! Ah, you're awake! I was worried you wouldn't wake up…"

Gilbert quickly uncurled himself as Matthew's voice trailed off, momentarily ignoring the pain in his side and flashing a broad grin as he forced himself upright. "Oh my god, I didn't notice it was that bad, how could I not notice it- Gilbert!" Matthew firmly pushed Gilbert back down. "You will stay right there until I bandage that."

"But Birdie~" Gilbert protested, struggling weakly. "I'm awesome, and awesome people don't get injured! Neither do we bleed!"

" And what would that blood I spy on the floor me then?" Matthew raised an eyebrow at him, trying to appear stern but the corner of his mouth quirked up in the hints of a smile as he heard the old nickname.

Gilbert's crimson eyes darted from side to side as he searched for an excuse. "Uh, I'm on my period! Yes, yes, it's just my period!" He laughed at this, waving a hand dismissively in front of him.

"Oh really." Matthew's expression remained unreadable.

Gilbert nodded frantically, then winced and clutched his side as a now-familiar jolt of pain temporarily paralysed him. He forced a high laugh as he grimaced. "Cramps, cramps! It's just cramps!" He flapped the other arm at Matthew, comically resembling a chicken for a moment.

Matthew reached out, brow creased with concern as more blood dripped onto the floor. "DON'T TOUCH ME THERE THAT'S WHERE THE CRAMPS ARE!" Gilbert exclaimed, now flapping his arm with increased vigour at Matthew. Matthew tilted his head to a side, gesturing at the blood on the floor.

"It's uhh…uhh. My period! I told you! I'm bleeding from my vagina!" Gilbert now laughed hysterically while Matthew frowned disapprovingly.

"I know you well enough to know that you don't have a vagina," Matthew seemed unamused by Gilbert's façade, inching closer, ripping a piece of cloth from a torn jacket as he did so.

"Oh MATTIE HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT? YOU BREAK MY POOR MAIDEN HEART," Gilbert gasped dramatically, throwing up his previously-flapping and uninjured arm up the air and sighed theatrically. Said arm was gently but firmly pushed aside by Matthew as he proceeded to bandage the slowly-healing wound.

Gilbert wiggled in weak protest. "I'm awesome and I don't bleed! I told you it was my period! Stop touching me where my cramps are!"

Matthew stared back down at Gilbert. "Awesome people don't tell lies." He wind the bandage once around the wound. "They don't act like a hero when dying." Twice. "They are not stupid." Thrice. "And, lastly, awesome people are not _so_ _goddamn cocky_." He finished the cloth bandage with a neat knot and stood, scanning Gilbert's body for more injuries.

Gilbert stretched gingerly before slowly pulling himself into a sitting position. He turned slowly, surveying his surroundings. They were partially sheltered by thin hanging boughs and a slanted tree that had wedged itself between two others, creating a narrow space in which Matthew now retreated under.

"Hey Birdie, what happened exactly? I can't remember anything apart from running in no particular direction," Gilbert attempted to stand and failed, his legs giving way under him. He shrugged it off, resorting to crawling shamelessly towards Matthew.

The blond moved to the side, creating space for Gilbert to plop down next to him. "I'm not too sure, but we got separated from Arthur after a while, and we ran till we got to a river. You passed out from blood loss there and I had to drag you around until I found this place. It's been around an hour since that happened." Matthew lifted a hand to gesture vaguely at the ground. It was then Gilbert noticed that despite their earlier energetic bickering, neither of them was in good shape.

He himself sported various cuts and nicks along with the obvious head and side wounds and the sole of his boot was partially torn off. Yet he didn't actually feel that bad. The pain was there, but it remained a dull ache in the background, not at all the still rather fresh wound that gaped in his side.

Matthew had sustained less severe wounds, but his body was literally trembling with exhaustion. His hands were wrapped in a previously-white cloth that was slowly becoming stiff with patches of dried blood. A smear of dirt ran across his cheek and the tell-tale sign of crusting blood was visible on his nose and upper lip. Similar to Gilbert, he appeared unaware of the pain, instead only muttering occasional complains about how tired he was.

Gilbert's eyes finally landed on the fluffy yellow creature that perched on a hanging twig above their heads. He pursed his lips, emitting a soft whistle, smiling as the bird left its perch to nestle comfortably in his hair.

"Gilbird!" Gilbert reached up to caress the small bird that leant into his touch, chirping happily. The small avian seemed unperturbed by the stench of blood, which of course made Gilbert extremely happy at the amount of trust it placed in him. Gilbird let out another chirp before hopping around the mess of silver hair, finally finding a spot to rest at a safe distance away from the wound on his head.

Gilbird, who was obviously named after Gilbert by the man himself, was found by Matthew and Gilbert when they were on one of their first scouting missions for Herne. The bird had fallen from its nest and was peeping rather angrily when Matthew had almost stepped on him. When attempting to return the bird to its nest, they found the nest now housing several broken eggshells and a rather fat snake. That ruled the nest out of the options and soon Gilbert had decided to take Gilbird. After all, the small creature had taken quite a liking to the soldier.

Both unconsciously huddled closer, seeking warmth under the downpour. Raindrops drummed above their heads as they shifted into a more comfortable position and thought of what to do next. After a while, Gilbert shifted slightly, tilting to face Matthew.

"Why do you think we don't hurt as much as we should?" He poked Matthew's bandaged hands, who in return offered a thoughtful frown.

Curiously, Matthew unwrapped the bandages. As the stained strips of cloth unravelled and fell to the ground, he examined his wounds. They were slowly scabbing over in irregular patches that marred the otherwise flawless skin. Gingerly, he ran a finger his knuckles, making a sound of slight amazement as he felt no pain.

"I'm guessing we've either become immune to pain, or it's Arthur's work." Seeing Gilbert's confused look, Matthew attempted to explain. "Remember those flying tiny people earlier? My guess is that they're somehow casting a spell on us until we get help." He cringed a little inside as he said this. All they could do right now was wait for the storm to pass, going out there in the current state they were in whether or not they felt the pain was too dangerous, especially with the rain obscuring most of their vision.

And so they waited. Gilbert ended up drifting off into a restless sleep, his head slowly lowering itself until it settled onto Matthew's lap. Matthew simply let one hand rest on the worn handle of his sword before slipping into a light sleep himself. Gradually, the rain eased to a little drizzle and the pair stirred, gazing up at the now crimson sky as the sun slowly sank beneath the horizon.

Gilbert eased himself into a sitting position, glancing outwards at the sky the reflected his own eyes. He wasn't surprised that it was already dusk, but he was a little worried. Both he and Matthew reeked of blood and if they encountered another pack of Durandal wolves they surely wouldn't stand a very good chance.

In the end, they decided that the stream would help. Matthew crawled out first, sword at ready lest any hungry wolf pounce on them whilst they emerged from beneath the tree that had done well to shelter them through the storm. Gilbert followed quickly after, rolling his shoulders before stumbling to the stream and slipping in with an obnoxious shout. He peeled off his shirt, shivering as the cool air hit his pale skin. The shirt was folded neatly and set aside on a flat stone by the river before Gilbert waded into a calmer part of the stream, leaning back against a smooth rock and lifting his legs, marvelling at how weightless he felt when in the water.

Matthew had taken watch on a short, stout tree that slanted haphazardly over the water, yet its branches barely shook as he manoeuvred himself into a comfortable position where he could scan most of the surroundings. From there, he bent down to hang by his legs, dipping a hand into the cool water and rinsing the dry blood off.

The crack of a twig breaking caused the pair to be on guard immediately. Matthew flipped back up, crouching on the tree branch in a battle-ready posture and Gilbert had sank below the water surface, sword resting on a rock, only the upper part of his face visible as he too readied himself for an assault.

From his vantage point, Matthew twisted and scanned the forested area across the stream. What he saw was rather unexpected and caused him to relax his stance momentarily in surprise. Sensing the change in his partner, Gilbert had glided closer to the tree, craning his neck above the water to see what had disturbed Matthew.

An auburn head popped up behind some bushes, followed by warm brown eyes. The rest of the man's slim body followed and soon a thin figure emerged from behind the trees, one hand scratching his head as he looked down almost guiltily and a sheepish smile graced his features.

"Wah, I was trying to be all quiet like Ludwig but it seems I failed…" The young man lifted his gaze, his grin broadening as he recognized Matthew.

"Feliciano!" Matthew slipped off the branch and approached the newcomer, his eyes softening with relief at the sight of an ally. Gilbert had swam across, reaching Feliciano before Matthew and embracing the younger with a loud laugh, ignoring the small squeak of protest at the wet form that pressed against him.

The trio had met once, not too long ago when the kings of the three allied kingdoms of Perchta, Herne and Durandal had called for a gathering in one of the main cities. They had struck a close friendship there and were bound by the terms of the alliance to help whenever one was in need. They made a strange group of friends, a quiet advisor who was often overlooked, the obnoxious soldier who seemed to know everyone and the cheerful queen who was more than often accompanied by his overprotective king.

Now, Feliciano looked them over, gasping as he took in their torn and tattered appearance. A hand covered his mouth in shock and he took an involuntary step backwards. He quickly recovered, gently taking their hands in his and leading them firmly away from the stream.

"You're coming with me to see Ludwig. He will help you," Feliciano explained as he led them onto what seemed like an animal track overgrown with abundant greenery. "You can stay for the night, since you look lost too!" Feliciano seemed quite happy at the fact that there would be extra company that night. "It's okay, I always get lost, so Ludwig won't be angry." The young man continued chattering happily to his two companions as they slowly drew closer to what seemed like a blazing campfire in the distance.

oOoOoOoOo

It wasn't long before they reached a cosy campfire. Well, it would probably seem more welcoming if not for the three armoured guards that stood stiffly at attention surrounding the perimeter and the exceptionally muscular blond that crouched by the flickering fire.

"Feli?" A large man stood, expression guarded as Feliciano skipped cheerfully around the campfire towards him, new companions in tow. Feliciano's smile only widened as he let go of Gilbert and Matthew, embracing the taller man with undisguised affection.

He returned Feliciano's hug, albeit rather awkwardly in the presence of their guests. He released Feli gently, striding purposefully towards Gilbert and Matthew. Narrowed blue eyes cast over lowered purple ones and met a challenging crimson gaze before softening a tad.

"You're welcome to stay the night. I am Ludwig, king of Perchta. I believe you already met my queen," Ludwig's unflinching gaze moved over each of them, as if daring them to disagree. Seeing that no one did so, Ludwig continued, "We did not expect that camping out at night was necessary and we are certainly not equipped to serve guests. However, do make use of what's available." Luwig's eyes softened slightly and a hint of a smile pulled at the corners of his lips. "It seems like you've been through quite a lot."

Gilbert flashed him a quick smile of thanks, though his expression remained somewhat puzzled as he examined the other man. This king, Ludwig, seemed oddly familiar and that particular shade of blue in his eyes brought back fuzzy memories that he couldn't quite place. Ludwig didn't seem to notice, only turning away to listen to Feliciano's constant stream of words.

Matthew's quiet "thank you" went unnoticed. Sighing, he turned to Gilbert, frowning slightly as he caught the other looking like he'd seen a ghost. Gently, he took Gilbert's hand, leading him to a quiet place on the opposite end of the makeshift camp. The guards eyed them suspiciously, but did not make a move.

Out of the blue, a wave of pain swept over the pair, causing them to trip and stumble. Matthew went down first, falling first to his knees and then flat on his face before rolling over with a groan, eyelids fluttering as the blond writhed in pain. Fresh blood trickled down his face and when he lifted his hands to his face, Matthew was taken aback to see them dark with the same substance, the previous scabs disappearing and replaced with open wounds.

Gilbert seemed to be worse off, lying prone on the ground with his eyes rolled back in his head, and his teeth grinding in pain as blood pooled under him. His arms made as if to raise himself, but they failed and folded under him. His muscles tightened and he shook his head violently, eyes squeezed shut tight as he muttered, delirious. "The wolves…run…no…" His speech faded into incoherent babbling and his body was wracked with pain, spasming in agony before he grew still, his breath slowly steadying.

What both men saw and heard before they went unconscious was similar. There was other-worldly pale green light, apologetic silvery voices and delicate figures that danced before their eyes. From afar, worried, disembodied voices that asked repeatedly if they were okay. The thumping of heavy boots approaching them and along with that, loud, excited barking that drove both men into a mindless panic before they drifted from consciousness.

oOoOoOoOo

Matthew woke to the familiar rocking motion of a cantering horse. He blinked blearily, slightly startled at the notion of waking up on a horse. However, a quick scan told him the idea was right. He also noticed that he was in fact leaning on someone. He quickly straightened up, muttering an apology as he did so.

The sudden movement made his head spin and instinctively he clutched the slim shoulders of the person in front of him. A soft yelp made him release his hands, once again repeatedly apologizing. It was then he saw the telltale curl on the auburn head as the man in front turned to smile reassuringly at him.

"Good morning, Matthew! Are you feeling alright?" Feliciano slowed the horse a tad as he turned his attention to his passenger. "You collapsed last night and there was blood everywhere!" He raised one hand to gesture dramatically in the air, his eyebrows now slightly furrowed in concern.

"I'm alright Feli, thank you," Matthew replied softly. It was true, he now felt a lot better. His body no longer felt like lead and his mind had cleared. The only things that bothered him were the occasional flashes of pain when he stretched a particular muscle, he flexed his fingers or something rubbed against the slowly healing scar on his neck. Gingerly, he lifted a hand to tap the scar, flinching as they brushed against the raw wound. There was another thing that bothered him to….

"Feli, what were the barks? Were there wolves?" Matthew failed to keep the fear out of his voice as he asked. He hated that slight tremor and cursed inwardly.

"Barks?" Feliciano seemed confused for a moment before his expression cleared. "Oh, no wolves, those were just Ludwig's dogs. Berlitz," He smiled, his hand travelling downwards to gesture at the three dogs that gambolled around said man, pointing each one out.

Matthew peered closer at the dogs. Berlitz was a stocky golden coated male that seemed exceptionally playful, darting in between Ludwig's unfortunate mount's legs occasionally with a playful bark. Aster seemed more serious and bore a rich tan with a black mask and "saddle" across a sloping and muscular back. The last dog, Blackie, loped comfortably ahead, its lanky frame covered in a fine coat of black and rust fur. Blackie's ears were perked up as the dog scanned the trail ahead for any danger.

His gaze travelled upwards to gaze upon the limp figure of Gilbert Beilschmidt. His friend's pale hair was unusually messy, covering closed eyes as he swayed, with only muscle memory keeping him on the back of the horse as he leaned against Ludwig's broad back.

As he watched, Gilbert stirred, eyelids twitching before slowly opening, revealing eyes that were glazed over in pain. Ludwig remained unaware until they hit a bumpy part in the road and his mount slowed to a bouncy trot and picked his way across the uneven surface.

At this point, Gilbert jolted awake. Of course, his first reaction would come across as rather comical if not for the fact that he was recovering from several serious injuries. He bolted upright in the saddle, knocking against the back of Ludwig's head as he did so and causing the larger man to frown. His eyebrows seemed to disappear into his hairline as he twisted around, absorbing the situation before his body registered the fact that he was indeed awake.

They came to a slope and Ludwig's horse gave a half-hearted leap forward, snorting as it carried the two men forward. Gilbert groaned as the jolt jarred his body, causing pain to shoot up his side again. His muscles contracted involuntarily as the wound stretched, sending a small trickle of fresh blood down his stomach.

"Fuck... Goddamnit, where the hell are we going?" Gilbert grinded his teeth together in an effort to stop himself from screaming in pain.

Ludwig cast a sympathetic glance over his shoulder before explaining. "We're on the way to Durandal," he replied shortly. He paused for a moment before asking, "How are you feeling?"

"It hurts like _shit_."

Ludwig's face resumed its default stony expression and he fell silent, concentrating on the road ahead and on not tripping over his dogs. Meanwhile, Gilbert pressed his forehead against Ludwig's back in a desperate attempt to cope with the pain.

Matthew watched his friend's struggle with a sinking feeling of helplessness. Sensing the situation, Feliciano gently nudged his horse closer to Ludwig's, calling out reassuringly as he did so. "Breathe, Gilbert. Just remember to breathe," Feliciano's light voice rang out.

The man tilted his head towards Feliciano, his expression more of a pained grimace as compared to the grateful smile he was attempting to make. "You make it sounds like I'm a woman in labour," Gilbert looked as if he was about to say more, but he snapped his mouth shut and a pained expression came over his face.

"Bear with it, remember to breathe," Matthew found himself echoing Feliciano's words as he tried to comfort his friend. It had more of an effect on Gilbert and he caught a grin from Gilbert before said man turned away and hunched his shoulders, letting out a strangled yelp when the horse moved into a canter.

As they crested the hill, the pale walls of Durandal rose before them and large wood and steel gates of the eastern entrance slowly creaked apart, admitting the company inside.

oOoOoOoOo

This wasn't his bed. Neither was it his kingdom. With a groan, Arthur woke, blinking eyes bleary with sleep. He nuzzled into the soft pillow, relishing the warmth while leaving one gleaming green eyes open as he scanned the room. The ceiling was high and domed, the walls were whitewashed and the floor was a wooden, a neutral brown that was easy on his eyes. He snuggled deeper into the blanket as he noted these, until there little more could be seen apart from the hint of green eyes and sandy blond hair that seemed to be stuck in a perpetual mess.

He then did a quick inventory check. The thin silk fabric against his pale skin told him that he was no longer in his own garments. He moved his fingers tentatively under the sheets, noting with relief that his hands were working properly. He continued testing his limbs, working slowly down until he reached his toes. Apart from a couple of spots here and there, his body did seem to be healing relatively well.

One thing he did notice out of place though, was that the bad seemed unnaturally warm. He fidgeted a little, before throwing back the covers and sitting up. He did not expect the searing pain that quickly followed his movements and he doubled over, stifling a pained screech as he did so.

Arthur remained frozen for a few more seconds before cautiously straightening his back. Tentatively, he twisted an arm behind his back, moving painfully slow before his fingers met skin. It stung. He withdrew his hand, startled at the amount of blood he saw. His pale fingers were coated in a thick red liquid that slowly trickled down as he watched.

With as little movement as possible, he then somehow angled his head to examine the bed. The crisp white sheets were crumpled, its previous colour now dotted with red, and in the middle where he lay, the sheets were already drying, a huge splotch of blood darkening and hardening.

He cringed at the sight and made a mental note to apologize to the owner of the residence he was staying currently at. Arthur stood shakily, his back ramrod straight, making sure not to bend lest the wound open even more that it did. He merely stood there, unsure about what he was going to next. Being the curious fellow that Arthur was, he approached the wardrobe, poking his head inside to see what he could find.

A bundle lay in a corner, under a row of neat garments hung from a steel rod that extended from one end of the wardrobe to another. With one hand on the wall for support, he tugged the bag out with a bare foot. At one point, the bundle tipped over, revealing what seemed to be his clothes. They were torn and tattered and blood stained the majority of the hunter green fabric. He prodded the cloth with his foot, turning it over to reveal a pair of boots.

The door slammed open and a blond head popped through. A pair of concerned blue-violet eyes met his and Arthur involuntarily took a step back, tripping on the boots and falling backwards, arms flailing as he unsuccessfully tried to halt his descent.

A moment later, Arthur was held by strong arms that wrapped around his shoulders, gently helping him up. With some effort, he managed to get to the bed, easing onto the mattress, every nerve in his body on end, afraid of stretching the wound and having that minor heart attack due to the pain.

That done, Arthur now looked up at Francis with a questioning glare, one thick eyebrow arched in question. Francis, meanwhile, was darting around the smaller man, peering closely at every scrape and gash on his body, muttering anxiously under his breath in a language Arthur could not begin to fathom.

Knowing the man would not answer him anytime soon, Arthur settled for fixing a slight scowl on his face and glaring daggers at the innocent wardrobe. He disliked attention in general, and the man flitting about him did not do much to help. He tried to focus on something else, but only childhood memories came back to him, brought back to the surface by the man nearby, who had also appeared in a great deal of his adolescence.

Days of carefree play, where Arthur had not a care in the world. He remembered the tall boy who visited regularly, led by the hand by a kindly woman whose soft laughter carried in the wind, light and elegant. Her son took after her in looks, though behaviour loosely resembled that of his father.

Arthur and Francis, barely teens, would often saddle up their horses and go for a ride in the forests, playing in the gurgling streams that duck and wove through the kingdom, climb the gnarled, tall trees that twisted above their heads, leaping with ease through leafy boughs that barely trembled under the weight of two preteen boys having a game of tag through the trees. Arthur was always more agile, nimbler and faster than Francis, yet the other boy found ways to outwit him. The two were evenly matched and that led to a strong friendly rivalry between the two boys, who were the princes of a powerful kingdom.

As the boys grew, so did the gap between them. Francis's visits were cut shorter and shorter as both were drawn apart to learn and bear the duties of their standings. Gradually, they grew apart, appearing no more than strangers with a past the last time they met.

"Arthur?" Francis straightened up, satisfied after his scrutiny of the wounds. He noticed the faraway look in Arthur's eyes and sighed dramatically, knowing he would get no response from the man. Instead, Francis bent down, retrieving a first aid kit from the bedside drawer and getting ready to bandage the particularly bad laceration on Arthur's back.

"Hey Francis, do you-" Arthur's voice broke off suddenly and the shorter man let out a hiss of pain as Francis wrapped the gauze firmly around his torso.

Francis hummed thoughtfully as he secured the knot. "Do I what, Arthur?" Francis asked, reaching out to adjust the bandage a little more before he backed away.

Arthur shook his head in response, biting his lip. "It was a stupid question."

Francis moved towards the door, holding it open as he met Arthur's eyes. "If you refer to whether I remember my childhood, then yes, I do remember." He held the gaze evenly as Arthur's eyes lit up momentarily. "Now, I'm sure you're hungry, yes?" Francis beamed at Arthur. "I persuaded the cooks to let me use the kitchen, so have some delicious breakfast cooked by me!"

Arthur stood, eying Francis suspiciously before striding towards him. He gave a curt nod of thanks as he stepped out, sniffing at the fragrant smells that wafted towards him.

"At any rate, its way better than what you cook, _Artur._" Francis murmured under his breath as Arthur moved past him.

If Arthur had heard it, he didn't give any indication that he did. He stepped back, allowing Francis to lead the way towards the dining hall.

oOoOoOoOo

"My companions? Were they found?"

Francis turned, startled by the sudden question. He raised one eyebrow as he answered calmly. "After you collapsed like that, you can hardly expect me to merely dash out to find your companions when there is someone in need of desperate help lying in front of me."

Arthur seemed somewhat subdued as he took a seat and began to eat. The sun shone into his eyes and the man winced slightly before bowing his head and beginning to eat. Francis watched for a moment before gliding over to the high windows, occupying his customary position as he surveyed the lands. He snuck a furtive glance at his guest, who was now picking at his food with a distracted expression.

Francis turned his attention back to the environment outside the window, scanning the roads with a faint hope. Perhaps Arthur's companions had found Durandal safely. Francis leaned forward, scanning the well-trodden and familiar paths. To his dismay, the roads were empty.

Perhaps they were already inside the walls and heading towards them right this instant? The faint flame of hope within Francis's chest rekindled and he searched with renewed vigour. Of course, this was Francis Bonnefoy, and his frantic searching appeared an idle gaze to many passersby.

Arthur's mind was in turmoil. Worry wracked his brains as he envisioned the accidents and dangers that might have befallen Gilbert and Matthew. He remembered Gilbert was in rather bad shape when he left them. Hopefully Matthew was fit enough to care for both. Or maybe the fay had helped them. Arthur speared the egg on his plate with more force than necessary.

And if they hadn't? If they hadn't been helped and they were still out there? He spun the knife in his hand, thick brows furrowed in thought. He stopped abruptly and stopped slouching over his plate as he saw a flash of green light. He opened his mouth to call out to the fay, but the small faerie merely turned and smiled before gesturing towards the window.

"What-" Arthur started. Ignoring the screaming protests of his back, he darted to the window, pressing his forehead against cold glass and searching the roads. Francis, who was rudely pushed out of the way, made an annoyed grumble before stepping back to give Arthur some space.

Arthur, if he had noticed the other, paid no heed. His eyes had landed on a mounted group that had entered the city. As he watched, the horses slowed to a trot and he recognized the burly blond at the front. Ludwig, king of Perchta. There was something off though. He fumbled with the latch on the window before throwing it open and leaning forward to get a better look.

Ludwig's horse was carrying two riders. Behind the brawny blond sat another man, his pale hair standing out amongst the blonds and browns of the company. As said man raised his head, Arthur caught a glimpse of red.

His gaze travelled down the group quickly, before finding another figure behind the slim queen. Wavy, two-toned blond hair that framed soft violet eyes. Arthur felt his face breaking into a rare smile and he gave a low shout of victory, startling Francis.

They were alive! A part of him felt like jumping up and cheering, yet his pride and dignity kept a firm hold on him, leaving him to slam the windows shut and dash into the corridor. Francis followed at a run, shouting directions to the exit as Arthur ran ahead, occasionally pausing to stop and look back when he came to a bend.

For a moment, Arthur was reminded of their childhood together. The castle momentarily melted away, replaced by an overgrown forest trail where he used to frequent as a youth. The vision faded just as he slipped through a door that had been left ajar. Sunlight hit his face as he burst forth, continuing his mad dash now that he ran into the streets.

oOoOoOoOo

Francis slowed down, letting Arthur draw ahead. At least he was happy. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned around, blinking in surprise. Michelle was looking worriedly up at him, her eyebrows drawn together as she bit her lower lip. "There's someone who wants to speak to you," she began, her voice lacking its usual energy. Instead, if anything, it sounded rather timid and frightened. Not at all like Michelle.

"His name..."Michelle trailed off hesitantly. "His name is Ivan Braginsky."

A/N:

Whoop~ Another update! Thanks for reviews, you made my day ^^ Hope my writing hasn't died since the first part with Ivan's POV.

And now for more trivia for this chapter. Yay for Gilbird! Sorry for awkwardly adding him in, but I couldn't resist.

Matthew and Gilbert don't feel the wounds cause it is indeed the fay who are keeping the pain at bay. Oh, that rhymed! The reason why they finally collapsed is cause the fay though they already found help and thus removed the spell so that it wouldn't drain Arthur. Nope, the fays don't use their own magic cause they won't risk it for the sake of another. They're rather reclusive after all.

Aster is the German Shepherd, Blackie is the Doberman and the golden retriever is Berlitz. Again, I'm not using dog breeds 'cause for some reason, it feels weird. If you do want me to include them, it'd probably be in conversation or something like that.

Arthur isn't as explosive as he would normally be when faced with the possibly death of his companions. Yes, because he's led a pretty solitary life where any sign of weakness would threaten his position. Remember, he was competing with his much stronger elder brothers. So for the sake of that he's pretty used to supressing emotions and only expresses himself freely in the presence of a close friend or when he's feeling either very happy or angry. Connections between him, Alfred, Matthew and Francis will be further explained somewhere in the future.

Yes, there's an extremely slow build-up. And the fact that I'm taking a hiatus to complete schoolwork and have a 2-week long vacation with my family isn't helping. I'll write in my free time, I'm just not too sure how long it'll take to update. I won't be dropping the story, so there _will _be an update somewhere in the far future.


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